


One Year Later

by VaguelyDownwards



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-29
Updated: 2012-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-04 12:23:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VaguelyDownwards/pseuds/VaguelyDownwards
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly and Mycroft share the secret of Sherlock's "death."</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Year Later

She knows he’s using her. She hears the whispers when they think she’s out of earshot, sees the pitying glances. They think she is blissfully unaware, but she knows. What they don’t understand is how much she genuinely wants to help. She is being used because she has willingly offered herself up to be used.

Reading the Holmes brothers is a delicate art, but she is very practised at reading people. So many people assume she took a job in a morgue because she is shy, because she would rather work with the quiet dead, but it’s the opposite. She took this job for the families of the deceased, for the doctors and nurses who see death every day. They need someone who can tell when they need silence and when they need words and when they just want a moment alone with their loss. She has seen the faces of the guilty and the innocent, of family and strangers, of friends and enemies and that wide grey area in between.

The Holmeses are not most people, but they are still human, despite what anyone says. She has seen Mycroft when he is vulnerable. She suspects there is no one else in the world who would recognise such a thing in him, save perhaps the venerable Mummy Holmes. She saw his weakness, and he saw her understanding. That moment of knowing forged a bond between them, something stronger than their shared concern for Sherlock. She never tells anyone. She keeps his secret, just as she kept the secret of Sherlock’s sad looks.

For those who have never met either of the Holmeses, he has the perfect cover. He sends her little gifts when she’s at work. This sort of thing is easy for him. It does not denote any special attention, only a few seconds’ thought and the diversion of a miniscule portion of his financial resources. He’s not the one who buys them, anyway; he has Anthea for taking care of exactly these sorts of little chores. He takes her to her favourite restaurant, or brings her takeout when she works late. He remembers her birthday though she never told him, he remembers the date they first met, the date her mother died, when she’s having a girls’ night out and when she’s spending the night in, he remembers all the days she dreads or anticipates and knows why each one is important, and most of all, he remembers their strange anniversary: the day Sherlock left.

She forces him to take her to a sickeningly romantic little diner. He, predictably, hates it, all the more so because it’s obvious that she can’t stand it either. It’s why she chose the place, and they both know it. It will give them something meaningless to fight over to take the sting out of their real reason for meeting. She thinks it’s probably good for him to do things like an ordinary person from time to time, no matter how much he thinks he’s above such stuff. Besides, he’s actually quite endearing when he’s uncomfortable.

“Any word?” he asks after the waiter takes their drink orders. He doesn’t need to clarify. They’re both all too aware of why they’re here.

“Yes, actually. I received an email from Anderson, of all people, congratulating us on making it a full year.” She does not need to mention that Anderson has denied all knowledge of such a message.

He smirks at this. “Anderson? How very kind. I didn’t expect such sentiment from him.”

“Neither did I. Apparently he has hidden depths.”

“Did he say anything else?”

She nods. “Not much, but he said his work is going well. And he was glad to hear that the investigation of Lestrade fell through. Still won’t say when he’ll be done, though.” She sips her wine. “He reminded us to take care of John.”

Mycroft smiles fondly, and the expression looks new and out of place. “I think he’d be surprised by how little taking care of John needs.”

And it’s true. She has watched him with the eyes of one well-versed in grief. The first few weeks she wasn’t sure if he would recover, worried he would spend the rest of his life as a broken shell of a man, but slowly, slowly, he got better. He found Sherlock’s old violin, and Mycroft discreetly funded private lessons for him. Like all beginner string players, he played horribly and out of tune, but they all knew Mrs. Hudson would never complain. It gave him something to do in his moments of melancholy, and he was improving. Perhaps when Sherlock returned, they could play together.

This would be a difficult night for him. Lestrade is on call, ready to phone with some minor emergency that needs John’s expertise if he gets the signal from Mycroft, who has had 221B bugged within an inch of its life since that first week they moved in. John is more like Sherlock than he thinks. He reacts well to being distracted with work, even if it’s work that reminds him of Sherlock. Especially then.

She sends John a carefully-worded text: _hey john its molly. er I know you know what day it is, but I just wanted to tell you that you can call if you need anything._ She imagines him reading it in her voice, shy and not too forward, with genuine concern. He will never know how much effort has been put into ensuring his stability. The reply comes back quickly: _I’m okay, but thanks for asking. You’re a dear, Molly._ It’s a good sign. Simple and to the point, not too insistent. He’ll be alright.

The waiter returns to take their orders, and she deliberately chooses something lighter and healthier than she wants. It may be a serious occasion, but they can still have their games. Mycroft doesn’t comment on her selection and expertly orders the dish she actually wants. When the food arrives, they eat off of each others’ plates in a revolting display of domesticity. She has seen John use the same trick to convince Sherlock to eat properly. It is their silent way of saying that there is some part of this that isn’t a lie, because they have shared too many secrets to remain fully separate. He knows that she is prone to denying herself her indulgences, but she knows that his eating habits are worse than his brother’s. They call a truce and order equally monstrous desserts. The meal is delicious and nourishing, and the wine is a vintage she loves but can never name.

When he walks her to her home, he gently takes her hand in his and delivers a nobleman’s kiss, looking for once like Mycroft the Human Being and not Mycroft the Government Official. “There are cameras everywhere, Miss Hooper,” he explains with a tiny mischievous smile.

“Yes, and you’re the one watching through them, Mr. Holmes,” she laughs back.

“Just so.” And there is that sadness, just like his brother, so quick that she almost misses it. She reads him as she always has, the tiny uncertainties, the nearly imperceptible crease of his brow, the tiny hesitation before speaking. He is afraid that when Sherlock returns, this will be over. She squeezes his hand and smiles, daring him to try his luck. She looks forward to the real courtship, romantic subterfuge masked beneath the false courtship they have built up so perfectly.

She knows that he has personally selected the flowers that arrive the next day. Anthea would have sent roses, red and classic, or lilies if she was feeling particularly sarcastic. The flowers that he has sent are cheap convenience store daises, dyed a rainbow of garish colours and sloppily arranged by inexpert hands. They are exactly what she didn’t know she wanted.


End file.
